rendezvous
by Happy Birthday to AprilLittle
Summary: he hates clocks. -sycamore/diantha


a/n: sycamore/diantha asdjfaksdjfakljsdflasdjfalsdjflsdfj

* * *

{|rendezvous|}

* * *

It's the small moments in their turbulent lives that count. A cup of tea or coffee at a charming Lumiose city cafe, an Unovan space opera film, a battle exhibition, waking up in the morning in either of their apartments, wrapped around each other and basking in the comfort of knowing that _he _or _she_ is there with sleepy, hooded eyes and a warm smile and the sun shining through their flimsy curtains.

He loves the feeling of her skin against his, the way she fits so perfectly against all his awkward planes and angles. If this was geometry, he would be something sharp, like a cube, and she would be something more tapered, a slender cylinder. He loves running his fingers through her hair, loves pressing his eager lips against her teasing ones, loves when they are both sleeping on the same mattress and she turns to him, gazing at him blearily but with such _radiance _in her eyes that he feels as though he is nothing more than a shimmer reflecting off the surface of the ocean while she, she is a sun.

Every time, she gnaws on the inside of her cheek, tilts her head to the side and watches the moon. Her eyes inadvertently drift toward the clock; her mouth inadvertently blurts that she has an appointment to meet, a deadline to catch, a plane to board to some far-off region for some far-off shoot. He sighs, rubs his face tiredly, drags a hand across his mouth. She sits on the edge of the bed, silhouetted by night, worrying her lower lip.

"I'm sorry, August," she apologizes profusely. "It's just- I'm so _busy_."

And he will say, like he rehearses, "It's alright, Di, I understand." A casual, nonchalant grin that is as fake as a mask, slides smoothly over his face. "Go on. You've got work, don't you?"

She leaves and he flops tiredly onto the sheets and sleeps alone and wonders about Diantha, wonders why clocks exist other than to serve as a reminder of their mortality. Sometimes he thinks if there weren't ever any clocks, if time simply ceased to exist, they could drag seconds into eternities, and that would be alright.

* * *

"I'll call, okay?"

Dressed in white cashmere, a feathered skirt, black stockings offset with standard ivory heels, she's gnawing again, eyes downcast. He could reach out and trace her lashes, the curvature of her cheekbones; God, he doesn't know what he's going to do. A latte in his left hand grows cold and the dregs settle to the bottom, he doesn't feel anything from the stinging autumn winds besides a light tingle. He swallows, adjusts his scarf.

"It's- Diantha, anything's fine, I understand if you've got too much stuff to do." He sighs for what seems like the hundredth time, his breath escaping from between his lips like steam from a teakettle. "I don't want to make you feel obligated to do this-"

(but really, he knows better; he wants her to feel so obligated that she will break down and stay, and it might be cruel but then again, clocks are cruel weapons of torture, and clocks are everywhere)

"No, August." She smiles at him, a movie-star smile. "I'll do it, I promised I would. You just keep your phone turned all, yeah?"

"Yeah." They're at the airport, there are only seconds before her departure. He thinks that if people are staring at them, the strangest couple on the surface of the planet, he doesn't give two shits. The time is slipping through his fingers like sand and he can't stop it. His scarf feels like a noose, all of a sudden.

Just as she starts to walk away, he calls out, "Wait!" and fumbles inside his jacket for a package while she watches with bemused interest. At last, he hands it to her. She accepts it, the slim, tailored black case with gold lettering, and opens it wide.

There is a beautiful watch sitting on the inside, set in a mold of crushed lavender velvet. The hands are sleek, made of the finest Kalosian gold, and every hourly dash is marked with a diamond set into the ring around the glass covering. _Celadon City_, reads a tiny script at the bottom. _Blake Fujimoto_.

"You got a Fujimoto watch?" she asks.

He grins a lopsided grin, a joker's grin, and responds, "Yep. It's for you, of course. Do you like it?"

She stares at him, seems on the verge of remarking about the irony of the fact that he has given her a _watch_. But at the last second, her lips twist into an expression of careful apprehension, although he sees bittersweet things in her eyes through the amber-tinted lenses of her _Fuerra_ sunglasses, and something inside of him seems to crack.

"It's beautiful," she answers simply. Bending upward, she pecks him on the cheek. A cordial thing, it is a mark of friendship, the observers might think. A friendly thing to do. Almost romantic.

He knows better, and as he watches her climb up the steps to the departing plane, he clutches something in his pocket like it's an anchor to the ground. A crumpled slip of paper, with her phone number, is gripped in his cold palm.

He waves as she leaves. Her windows are too dark, and he can't see if she waves back.


End file.
